


Melograno

by hyphyp



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, but none worse than the games themselves!, historical inaccuracies probably, this will be pretty plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyphyp/pseuds/hyphyp
Summary: Rome, 1500: A man with no memory becomes convinced that the key to his identity and the events that stole it from him are somehow tied to the infamous assassin. But are some things better left forgotten?
Relationships: Desmond Miles/Original Male Character, Ezio Auditore da Firenze & Desmond Miles, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. Malik

**Author's Note:**

> i'm honestly just vibin'. come vibe with me. come vibe with me in this space.

In the backroom of a crowded tavern, not far from the edge of the Tiber, a fist met the flesh of a man’s face with such a heavy, meaty thud that it was audible even over the roaring of the bar’s patrons. The churn of many bodies and many mugs of beer had made the room hot and loud, but the brutal cadence of that strike rose above it all. The crack resounded only long enough to be echoed by the enormous thump of a body hitting the floor, and then both sounds were swallowed by a crescendo of cheers.

An empty ring had been formed in the center of the room, just barely large enough for two fighters within, and their audience pressed together in a raucous mass. The crowd was laughing now, hoisting their mugs into the air in celebration or leaning forward to jeer at the man on the floor. Coins began to pass hands. Benedito watched the coins. Malik watched the blood trickling down the face of the defeated man.

Two men emerged from the crowd to gather up the fallen boxer, hoisting him bodily away. One thunked the downed man heartily on the shoulder, commiserating his loss and nearly sending him tumbling down again. Probably he’d be fine, after he had a bit of alcohol in him and the sting to his pride had been lessened.

Malik looked back into the ring, toward the victor, who was drinking eagerly from a mug one of his supporters had bought him with their winnings. He was a large man - very broad and sturdy and not much shorter than Malik himself was.

“What do you think, Ben?” Malik asked the man beside him. “You think I can take him?”

“Stop calling me that,” Benedito said, but it was more out of habit now than true annoyance. “Of course you can. There’s not a man in Rome who wouldn’t underestimate you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Malik said wryly.

“To his own detriment!” Benedito said. “And to our profit.”

Benedito had a handsome face, but was shorter than Malik, too - much shorter. Most people were in these parts. The people of Rome were many and varied these days, coming in droves from all regions of Italy and beyond, but though there were many different faces to be seen throughout the Eternal City, most of them still came to rest at about Malik’s shoulder level.

“His name is Ricci,” Benedito said of the boxer. “He’s a regular around here and a local favorite. They like him because he wins and is stupid. It makes him easy to get along with.”

Malik smiled slightly but cast a wary look around the room. As always, the real risk with these things wasn’t the other fighter, but the gamblers. A hustle was a careful thing. You couldn’t look like you were lying to people. You had to make them think they were doing it to themselves.

Malik had an advantage in that regard - he only had one arm.

He had two, actually, but only the left one worked. The right one was an ugly mess of burns and had no feeling or movement in it. A doctor had told him it was probably rotting inside, that it would slowly consume his whole body and kill him, but Malik still hadn’t let him cut it off. Whatever risk it posed to him, it was less than that of the bone saw, he thought. That the same doctor also crossed himself and called it the mark of the devil had not improved Malik’s disposition toward surgery.

He kept it bound in a cloth sling most of the time, so that it could breathe and so that his shoulder still had free movement without letting the dead limb hang and get in the way. A stump may have been more effective for the hustle, but it did a fine enough job just as it was, and people naturally assumed an injury of some kind when they saw the wrappings. It was a tight enough binding, too, that he was only rarely suspected of pretending lameness. Even these doubts were easily settled when it was demonstrated that his arm couldn’t be easily freed in the middle of a fight.

In general, Malike tried not to show people the arm itself. Most people, like the doctor, seemed to take it as a sign of evil. That was a dangerous thing to have in a place like Rome.

“The mood seems okay,” Malik said to Benedito. “Could turn sour when the ‘local favorite’ goes down, though.”

“Don’t be so glum, my friend,” Benedito chided. “The mood is wonderful! Here we have a group of friends who are only looking to have a good time. Win some money, lose some money, it doesn’t matter to them, so long as there is still plenty of beer and blood left to spill.”

“And women,” Malik added.

He watched as a man shoved his hand boldly into the bodice of a woman in a scandalously low-cut dress.

“And women!” Benedito cried cheerfully, for he was a great fan.

Malik smiled wider and rolled his neck.

If things went badly, the people here were drunk enough that it probably wouldn’t be difficult to slip out in the ensuing confusion. And if it was, well, there were worse ways to end a night in Rome than beaten and broke, and he’d tried most of them already.

None could be worse than the first night, two months ago, which he had spent utterly penniless and alone, lost in a city and a world he didn’t recognize, with no name and no knowledge of his origins, his only companions a lifeless arm that frightened him and a panicked certainty that something had gone horribly wrong.

He had survived that. He could mop the floor with Ricci’s face, and look good doing it, too

He shouldered his way into the ring.

“Up for another fight?” Malik called.

Ricci, still turned away and occupied with his beer, smiled the way only a man with a great capacity for violence can. Malik thought it was an expression he himself wore with no small frequency. But the smile faded and became confused as Ricci faced Malik and took him in. The blood lust melted into mockery.

“You mean to challenge me?” he asked.

“If you’re still up to it, yes,” Malik confirmed.

The man who had brought Ricci his drink laughed and slapped his arm. Others around him laughed as well, eyeing Malik like he was some kind of circus act.

“Are you stupid as well as crippled?” Ricci taunted.

“I guess that’s a matter of opinion,” Malik said.

The snide look Ricci was giving him made his opinion plain.

He could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Benedito was already making the rounds, whispering in ears and making casual bets. He was good at that, better than Malik was, though he could be clever enough when he put his mind to it. But Benedito knew how to put an idea into a man’s head without him realizing it had been put there. Sometimes Malik thought the same must have been done to himself. That was alright. As the minutes passed, the satisfaction Malik thought he’d get from punching Ricci was growing larger and larger.

Ricci still had some hang-ups.

“I’m not fighting you,” Ricci said. “I’d sooner fight a woman.”

“Many women would beat you,” Malik said.

“Are you calling me weak?”

Malik hadn’t been, but he sometimes forgot how strangely dated local attitudes about women were. Antiquated. Although, of course, he had nothing to base this view on except that he felt it was true. He wondered if thins were different where he was from.

“I’m saying I can beat you,” Malik said, setting that aside. “And you’re too afraid that I’m right to try and find out, which is smart, but not very fun.”

Ricci laughed without humor. He looked back at the crowd, seeking their approval, and a chorus of yells went through them, taunts and insults and encouragements of violence.

“Break the other arm!” someone nearby yelled, and his neighbors cheered in agreement.

Ricci looked again at Malik and nodded.

“Alright,” he agreed, shoving his mug into the hands of the nearest man. “If you want to be beaten so badly, I don’t see why not. But I don’t feel right hitting a disadvantaged man.” He raised his own right arm, clenched his hand into a fist, and then held it behind his back. “There. Now we’re evenly matched.”

The crowd roared. Malik smiled, and knew without seeing what kind of smile it was.

“If you say so,” he said, and really meant, _Not even close._

Two months ago, on a narrow Roman street near the bank of the Tiber, Malik had come awake with no memory of his past and no knowledge of himself. On a bench in the shade, he had been born fully grown, with a deformed limb and a raw, staggering grief unlike any other. Since that moment, he had wandered, seeking what he didn’t know, desperate for any clue to his origins or identity. He found nothing.

Except: Malik – who had not been Malik back then, who had no name at all – was exception at brawling. He had a great capacity for violence.

He raised his fist, rocked back onto the balls of his feet, and took a swing at Ricci.

It was sloppy and slow. He telegraphed the motion, and Ricci hardly had to dodge at all. Ricci laughed. Malik swung again, and Ricci indulgently moved aside, still only playing along out of good humor. Malik straightened out of the missed strike and watched with half an eye as Benedito moved through the crowd.

Maalik had found nothing about himself except his skill at fighting. Benedito, on the other hand, had found Malik. And what luck that had been for both of them.

I had been a month ago, now, in the basement of another tavern halfway across Rome, although much the same as this one in many ways. Malik had heard there was a prize for winning fights there and had come to claim it. And so he had, in about thirty seconds flat, and much to the bored annoyance of the gathered tavern patrons. Malik hadn’t cared. He was only after the purse.

Benedito had a larger vision.

“Let me buy you a drink, friend,” he said, pulling Malik-who-was-not-yet-Malik aside just as he was heading for the door. “What’s your name?”

That was when not-Malik had paused, thought about it, and said, “Malik.”

He had known, even then, that it wasn’t his real name. He could tell. He was borrowing it from someone and didn’t know who, only that it felt right. Or, not right. Like a joke.

“Very good, Malik,” Benedito said, not noticing the hesitation, or maybe just not caring that he was being lied to. “I am Benedito, and I have a business proposition for you.”

Malik, who was tired of eating scraps and sleeping in ruins and alcoves for only a few troubled hours at a time, let himself be guided to an empty table with wary curiosity. And then Benedito explained the hustle to him, and Malik’s wary curiosity grew into interest.

“You have potential, but you could use some help,” Benedito had said. “Someone who knows how to get the money flowing.”

“Like how?” Malik had asked.

“Take a few punches early on,” Benedito said. “Give people time to bet against you. When they see you, no one will think you can win, but of course you can, so you give a friend –” He gestured toward himself. “– time to bet against your opponent. Then you draw out the fight. It’s fancy, the way you put that lunkhead down, but not entertaining. People are happier when they’re entertained, and happy people bet more money. They’re also less likely to turn on you when they find their pockets empty.”

“Hm,” Malik said thoughtfully. “And how much of a cut would you want?”

“Half,” Benedito said. “I find the place, work the crowd, manage the bets, and all you have to do is win the fights.”

“Oh, is that all?” Malik asked dryly.

Benedito gave him a charming smile. “What do you say?”

Malik considered him. Benedito was nothing less than a snake, he thought, but an honest snake, maybe, or at least one that had bought Malik a drink.

“Sure,” Malik said. “Why not?”

In the ring with Ricci, Malik remembered this, and remembered the finesse they had perfected over the last month. He offered his chin to Ricci on a silver platter. Ricci, ravenous, accepted. He swung.

The crowd hissed and jeered as once, twice, Ricci hit Malik, and Malik took the blows, angling his face to lessen the damage. He already had one scar and wasn’t looking for another.

“Had enough yet?” Ricci asked, drawing back a step.

“I’m still standing, aren’t I?” Malik said.

“If it’s the floor you want,” Ricci said with a shrug, and swung again.

This time, Malik ducked. Ricci’s fist whipped through the gap of air over Malik’s head. Malik took the opening and put his fist into Ricci’s stomach. The large man’s thick muscles caught the blow, but it was a precise strike, and it trembled through him like a shockwave. Ricci staggered away, a look of surprise on his face.

The crowd groaned again, but this time it was Ricci’s hurt they felt.

It wasn’t enough to turn the mood in Malik’s favor, though, not yet. Ricci still held one arm behind his back. Lucky shots happened. Ricci’s eyes narrowed, but his grin didn’t fade. He lunged again. Malik dodged.

 _Draw it out_ , he reminded himself. _It’s not just a fight; it’s a performance._

Some part of him bucked against the idea – something brutal and efficient – but another prideful part basked. He could do this dance all night if necessary.

He dodged two more shots. Ricci began to grow visibly annoyed as he struggled to hit home. The crowd was laughing, calling out to him, saying nasty things about Malik and egging Ricci on. They found it funny, watching Ricci try and fail to grab the cripple, but they did still want him to win. They wanted Malik put in his place.

Malik would be glad to show them where his place really was.

Ricci took a heavy swing, a devastating sweep of his arm that probably would’ve cracked a bone had Malik taken it. Malik ducked again, and this time jabbed upward, striking Ricci in his now unprotected jaw. Spit flew. The crowd sucked in a breath.

Ricci cursed and spat red onto the floor as he straightened up, real anger finally in his eyes.

“You’re a fast little shit, aren’t you?” he said.

Malik only smirked.

Ricci rolled his neck and took his arm out from behind his back. A low murmur went through the crowd at this, a thick hum of interest and concern. It wasn’t a serious fight, was it? Just a joke. A man with only one arm was no match for Ricci. That would be ridiculous.

Ricci threw himself at Malik with real intent, those huge hands whipping through the air like boulders, but all he found was air. Malik darted to the side, and then darted again, and then, at the third attempt, whipped himself around behind Ricci and slammed the hard point of his elbow into the huge man’s back.

Ricci made a sucking, gasping sound as the air was knocked out of him, but pushed through it, whirling to try and grab at Malik again.

“Stop running away and fight me like a man!” he yelled.

“Okay,” Malik agreed.

He let the next fist that came toward him pass just by his cheek and reached up to grab the wrist attached to it. He yanked, pulling Ricci forward and his solar plexus straight down onto Malik’s knee.

The groaning in the crowd had surpassed the cheers, now, which had all but petered out. They were starting to see how things were going, and it wasn’t well for the local champion. Indeed, Ricci was having a hard time pulling himself upright again, one arm clasped over his stomach as he heaved for breath.

Malik glanced over Ricci’s shoulder and found Benedito in the crowd. He looked conflicted for a moment, but held up a single finger. One more hit. Malik could do that.

“No hard feelings, friend,” he said to Ricci.

Ricci roared and rammed a fist forward, aiming for Malik’s nose, but it was a wild and angry swing that once again missed its mark. Malik found the gap in his defense and took it. His fist met the side of Ricci’s face with a resounding crack. Ricci’s neck snapped to the side from the force, a soft gurgle pushed out of him. His nose was probably broken. It definitely would be in a second – Malik hitched a foot around Ricci’s ankle as he staggered from the blow and used Ricci’s own unsteady momentum to send the heavy-set man sprawling face first into the ground. Malik’s elbow came down hard on the back of his neck as he fell, just to make sure.

There was an enormous thud, like a tree falling, and then Ricci groaned, and did not get up.

The tavern went almost deathly still. Nobody cheered. They stared, dumbfounded, as Malik stood over their formerly undefeated Ricci.

Benedtio, Malik saw out of the corner of his eye, was trying to slink backward with a panicked look on his face. One hit had been a miscalculation.

Fuck.

“…Borgia,” Malik said, grasping for something to say or do. He cleared his throat, and then said, louder, with all the false bravado he could muster, “I lost my arm to the Borgia! But I did not lose my pride! _Viva la Roma!_ ”

There was a long, awful pause.

Then the crowd roared with a thunderous cheer.

“ _Viva la Roma!_ ” echoed all around him as they surged forward, glasses raised in a salute.

Malik let someone raise his fist, and another sling an arm around his shoulders, and he melted into the embrace of the crowd. He spied Beneditio through the heaving mass, panic transformed into greed as he began to collect their winnings.

 _Viva la Roma_ , Malik thought, accepting a drink from an anonymous donor.

Fuck the Spanish, fuck the French, and double-fuck the Borgia. Whoever and whatever Malik was – when in Rome, it was wise to do as the Romans.

x

Their winnings were a tidy sum – fifty florins to split between them. It was the most they had ever taken in one night, and Benedito didn’t even try to slip a few extra coins into his own pile, as he usually did. Although who knew how much he’d already secreted away. They were friends, Malik thought, but Benedito was still a snake.

“That was fast thinking, tonight, Malik, well done,” he said, measuring the weight of his purse in the palm of his hand.

They had stopped in the darkened eaves of a shuttered blacksmith’s shop. It was still some hours before dawn, and the streets were empty, except for a few drunks and the night guard on their rounds. They had given Malik and Benedito the stink eye as they went past a few minutes previous, but no trouble.

“You and I,” Benedito said, patting Malik on the shoulder, “we will go far together.”

“At least until we run out of taverns where they don’t already know my name,” Malik pointed out.

It had been a lucrative month, but they hadn’t exactly been discreet.

“Eh,” Benedito said, unconcerned. “We can always change that.”

Malik rolled his eyes.

“Say,” Benedito started to say slowly, “you didn’t actually lose your arm to the Borgia, did you?”

It wasn’t like Benedito to ask personal questions. He hadn’t asked Malik a thing about himself before now, save for his name. This had been a relief, given how ill prepared Malik felt he was to make up a lie.

Benedito seemed to assume that Malik had come from Florence, often making idle comments about what things must be like ‘in the north’ that Malik only hummed non-committedly to in response. (Given his dialect, it was likely that Malik _had_ come from Florence, only he had no way of knowing and wasn’t exactly in the financial position to go north to try and find out.)

That Benedito was asking a personal question now didn’t mean he was interested, though. Clearly, he thought it might be a problem.

“No, of course not,” Malik said, not really knowing whether or not it was true. “There was an accident, that’s all.” He felt sure that it hadn’t always been deformed, anyway. It felt foreign to him, in a way his other scars – like the one cutting across his mouth and the tattoo on his left arm – did not. “Do I seem like the kind of man to pick a fight with the Borgia, Ben?”

“Benedito,” Benedito corrected absently. “And I have no idea. I think you are the kind of man who, if he wanted to do something, would do it, and it would be very hard to dissuade him. The only relief the rest of us have is that there are very few things you care to do.”

Malik wasn’t sure what to make of this character assessment. He didn’t know himself well enough to say whether or not it was accurate and couldn’t decide whether he should be offended. He was certainly disconcerted, that a stranger could know him better than himself. But that was the state of things, wasn’t it? Somewhere in the world, there must be someone who knew even more.

“I don’t care to fight the Borgia,” Malik assured Benedito for now. “And the Borgia don’t care to fight me.”

“Very well,” Benedito said. “Let’s hope it stays that way. In the meantime, I care to do something that is not fighting with someone that is not the Borgia.” He grinned.

Malik shook his head in disbelief.

“I don’t know that it’s that different from fighting,” he said wryly.

“That’s how you think, Malik you’re doing it wrong.”

Benedito was a great lover of women, and a great patron to the whores of Rome. He gave a large number of speeches on the matter - _Malik, you have not lived until you’ve slept in a beautiful woman’s arms; there is no peace quite like it, no rest_ \- but Malik had never seen the appeal in such things. He felt no desire for the painted ladies who wandered the streets, only a vague sort of pity. But it was the kind of sentiment likely to get him in trouble, not only with Benedito, but also with the women themselves, so he kept it to himself.

“How I do it is none of your business,” he said instead.

Benedito looked like he was about to begin another of his vulgar lectures on matters of the female sex and sex with females, so Malik turned away and cast about for a way to change the subject. A flutter of paper caught his eye. Something had been tacked to the wall not far from where they stood, and the loose corner of it was playing in the breeze. Malik reached out and snagged it.

“What’s this?” he asked, although he could clearly see what it was.

Across the top, it said, “DEAD OR ALIVE,” and across the bottom, it said, “50,000 florins,” which was more money than Malik could imagine ever existing in one place. The picture between the two phrases was a dark sketch of a man in a hood. There were barely any features visible, save for a strong chin, thick, full lips, and the end of what promised to be a handsome nose.

Benedito peered over his shoulder to see what he had and then snorted. “What, you haven’t heard?” he asked. “The notorious assassin who stalks the rooftops of Italy, killing the corrupt nobles and their murderous guards?”

Malik shook his head dumbly.

“Where have you _been?_ ” Benedito exclaimed. “The people love him, of course. But hasn’t been seen in many weeks. This must be an old notice.”

“Assassin,” Malik repeated slowly.

“Could be he died,” Benedito went on. “People always say that when he goes quiet for a while, though. Probably they just haven’t noticed what he’s been up to since then. Otherwise he’s lying low.” He suddenly fixed Malik with a narrow look. “It’s not you, is it?”

Malik blinked, startled, and then glared as Benedito broke and began to laugh.

“As if,” Malik snapped. “If I don’t care to fight the Borgia, why would I run around killing people and attracting their attention?”

“People say he slinks from shadow to shadow, kill to kill, like a demon in the night, the angel of death personified,” Benedito said lowly. “But it could be he just sneaks because he’s a coward.”

“Oh, I think I see him right behind you.”

Benedito grinned and didn’t look.

“Anyway, it’s not that far-fetched,” he said. “The way you fight, you must have some training, yes? You don’t strike me as a mercenary, so why not an assassin?”

Malik frowned. Benedito was only joking, but that was because he didn’t know all the things Malik didn’t know. Somehow the suggestion bothered Malik, more than he had any right to be bothered by it. He pushed the feeling aside.

“I’m not an assassin,” he said firmly. “Besides, I look nothing like this man.” He held the poster up next to his face.

Benedito laughed – the poster had so little on it, it may as well have been blank.

“Very well, I believe you,” Benedito said. “If you were an assassin, you would have to tell me – that’s the code between brothers.”

At the word ‘brothers,’ Malik smiled with sudden fondness.

“I would tell you,” Malik agreed, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

“I’ll take that chance,” Benedito said. He tossed his coin purse into the air and then caught it, grinning at its healthy jingle. “Well, good fortune, Malik, and goodnight. Get some proper sleep and food, would you? We need you in fine form.”

“Of course I will,” Malik said. “Don’t nag. Come find me when you’re low on coin again.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Benedito said.

Malik scoffed.

Benedito gave him a wink and a roguish salute, and then turned and strolled down the dark street, a spring in his step. Malik watched him go for a moment, and then looked back down at the wanted poster.

50,000 florins was a lot of money. You’d think with a going rate like that, they’d have a better sketch.

His eyes traced the small swatch of face, the way the shadow cut jaggedly across the lip, and uncertainty stirred in him.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t know this man. You’d remember something like that.”

Still, he hesitated. After a moment, he folded the paper into quarters, and shoved it into his pocket with his winnings. As he began his trek south, to the hovel he was renting, he tried to put it out of his mind.

He couldn’t shake that strange feeling, though. There was something he was supposed to know. And he didn’t.


	2. Elisabetta

The next morning, Malik rose with the sun and sat for a long, restless moment trying to remember his dream.

He rarely remembered his dreams, and what he did manage to recall was always fragmented and strange. This time there had been a bright light, a deep darkness, and a series of distorted feelings that eventually washed out into even nothingness and grey. It was impossible to make sense of, but he could feel the beginnings of meaning lingering just out of his reach. There had been people there, but whenever he felt his fingers brush against their names and faces, they twisted into smoke and disappeared.

Eventually he gave in and went to wash. There was a fountain not far from the cramped, hot room he had taken up, and each morning he went there to at least wash his face. It wasn’t ideal. The water was probably dirty, and he always still felt a little gross and sticky when he was done. Once or twice a week he purchased a hot bath from his landlady, but it was expensive and the results not much better. He chalked it up to one of those things that was just different where he came from.

Florence, he thought, maybe. In Florence, women must walk among men as their equals and the water must be pure and fresh and the doctors must turn their noses up at leeches. Also, no one shit in the street. Well, maybe in Florence, but not so in Rome.

At the fountain, he bypassed the gossiping women who gathered there to wash their linens and socialize and removed his shirt. This always drew looks that made the skin on Malik’s back flush hot, but he tried to ignore them. It was impossible to tell what they were staring at. His arm, probably, although their titters sometimes made him think otherwise.

Once cleaned, or closer to clean, he donned his shirt and went to find his stash.

Rome was a city of ruins. Cows grazed in the crumbling temples of ancients, and the poor made their beds in lean-tos beneath the cold marble gazes of forgotten gods. The rich sheltered in their walled estates while the rest could only do their best against the criminals and the wolves.

Despite himself, Malik liked it. There was something comforting in the lawlessness of it all. He couldn’t say what. But sometimes as he walked along the old, worn roads, he felt, if not at home, then at least at peace.

His stash was hidden in the colosseum. It wasn’t exactly an abandoned ruin, but it had seemed like a good place to hide things, so he’d bought an old box for a few coins and hidden his scant worldly possessions there, in a hole underneath a large stone. Even if someone had found his things, they probably wouldn’t have known what to do with them. Malik hardly knew. They were only – his, and strange.

All he’d had on him when he woke in Rome were his clothes. They didn’t make sense, stood out among the linen hose and doublets everyone else worse, and, worse than that, they also made perfect sense to Malik. The strange white hooded jacket with the metal zipper (the word came to him naturally); the hard-soled shoes with laces and the name of a Greek goddess printed on them; the stiff trousers and the label inside with cleaning instructions. In English. For a washing machine. He both knew these things and didn’t understand them at all.

At last, even his “maybe in Florence” thoughts were stretched thin to the point of disbelief at these, although he couldn’t think of any other explanation. Florence _was_ known for their impressive textiles. Yet it felt inadequate.

This was not the mystery he contemplated today, however. He pulled the wanted poster out of his pocket and compared it to the jacket.

“Yeah, it looks totally different,” he muttered to himself, flipping the hood up. “There’s no. Line.”

He stared at the two, side by side, growing more and more uncomfortable as the moments passed.

“You’re being paranoid,” he told himself at last, and shoved the jacket back in the trunk. “Owning a hood’s not proof of anything. Lots of people own hoods.”

He wasn’t sure that was completely true – not white hoods like these, anyway – but it was at least somewhat true. The assassin hadn’t _invented_ hoods. It wasn’t his _thing_. And if he wore clothes as strange as the ones Malik had found himself in, they probably would’ve featured more prominently on the wanted poster. Less of a “watch out for this shadowy criminal” and more of a “check out this freak.”

He replaced the trunk in its hiding spot, added the coin he’d won the previous night to his small stash, and shoved the wanted poster back in his pocket. He firmly put thoughts of assassins and hoods out of his mind. Instead, he headed into the heart of Rome.

On the days that weren’t spent with Benedito - who was probably somewhere nursing a hangover or else still passed out - Malik wandered the streets, searching for anything that might spark a memory. Part of him still hoped that someone would recognize and call out to him, but it had been long enough that it was a small hope. Surely if anyone had been looking for him in earnest, they would have crossed paths by now.

Still, he found himself lingering in the district where he had first woken, watching the crowds, the mingling of the common and the wealthy, looking for anything that would strike a chord. Sometimes he even scaled the sides of the buildings and watched from the rooftops - a feat that was at once utterly natural and completely annoying, thanks to his arm. It felt like it would have been a much simpler thing to do, if he had the use of both of them, but he did it better with one than most men could have done at all. (And he was still resolutely not thinking about assassins who apparently ‘stalked the rooftops of Italy,’ whatever that meant.)

Maybe he ought to go to Florence, after all. He might be able to scrape the money together. There had to be a reason he was in Rome, something that had brought him there, but everything about him marked him as a foreigner and everything about Rome marked it as foreign. Maybe it was only the jubilee that had drawn him here, as it had so many others.

The jubilee and the opening of the Santa Porta, which cleansed the sins of any man who walked through it. Pope Alexander VI had opened it on Christmas Eve of the previous year to celebrate the turn of the century, but Malik thought it was more of a shrewd tourist draw than an act of faith. Rome certainly needed the economic boost.

Such cynical musings made him doubt that he had made his own holy pilgrimage. Perhaps in Florence – where most people were literate and not quite so god fearing and hoods were highly fashionable – he would find something he remembered.

He contemplated this as he entered streets already thronged with the working class, laden with goods and groceries as the morning bustle hit its peak. But he was brought up short by a commotion in the crowd ahead.

A woman in little more than a night shift was shoving her way through the crowd, uncaring for those she pushed out of her path. People cried out as they stumbled and dropped their belongings. One man’s basket of produce fell with a crash and scattered across the stones. He cursed the woman loudly as he stooped to chase the fat lemons, which were rolling quickly away, but she ignored him. Others slowed their steps, like Malik, to watch her progress, whispering among themselves and pointing.

As she drew nearer, Malik was alarmed to see a splash of blood across the front of her dress. Her face was tense with distress and her feet were bare, the hem of her dress drenched in mud. Instinctively, Malik took a step closer. She looked like she’d seen a murder. She looked like she needed help. But as he moved toward her, the woman marked him – or at least his arm – and her expression grew resolute.

“Are you Malik?” she asked, nearly out of breath.

Malik’s previous sympathetic worry shifted to concern for himself.

“Who’s asking?” he asked warily.

He knew very few people in Rome. Fewer knew him.

“You must come quickly,” the woman said. “The Cento Occhi have your friend, Benedito.”

“The who?”

But the woman only grabbed him by the wrist and began tugging him back the way she had come. Malik allowed her to drag him.

“Who are the Cento Occhi?” Malik tried again. “Why do they have Ben?”

“A gang of thieves and lowlifes,” the woman spat. “They didn’t tell me, only ripped him from my bed and sent me to find you like a dog.”

He examined the side of her face as she dragged him into a brisk pace and saw that a bruise was beginning to form on her temple. He still wasn’t sure what was happening, but he liked it less and less.

“Does he owe them money?” he pressed. That seemed like something Benedito would get caught up in.

“I’m sure I have no idea, messere,” the woman said. “This has nothing to do with me.”

She had run very quickly for someone who was uninvolved, Malik thought.

She led him northeast, toward the edge of the city where the buildings began to thin out into farmland again. They slowed as they came to a crumbling storehouse with a couple of rough looking men leaning by the door, keeping watch.

Malik sized them up unhappily and decided that the woman’s description of “lowlifes” had been about right. They wore the same kind of cheap, worn clothes that Malik wore, and their faces had the mean slant of people who had been punched there, often. It was the kind of face Malik had become very familiar with in recent days. But usually not more than one at a time, and usually not armed, as these two were.

The woman pushed past them uncaringly, and they stepped aside to let her, clearly expecting their arrival. Malik hesitated to follow. He wasn’t exactly sure this was a good idea. He thought he would have preferred to do a little reconnaissance first, assess the situation a bit. But he could see it was too late now. The men glared. Their mean faces grew meaner. One of them turned his head and spat into the dirt. The other put his hands on his hips so that his broad chest looked even broader.

Malik went inside.

The storehouse was dark and dirty and empty except for a few clusters of old, rotting crates. Benedito was seated on one of these, trussed up in ropes with a copious amount of blood leaking down his face and what looked like a broken nose. The way he listed to one side told Malik the rest of him hadn’t fared much better. His eyes were shut, but it wasn’t clear whether he was unconscious or just in a great deal of pain.

There were five more thugs, all of them armed like the men outside. Most only had daggers – which was bad enough – but one had a sword strapped to his waist. This one Malik singled out as the leader. The way his hand rested on the pommel of the sword told Malik it wasn’t for show.

“I’ve done as you said, now return my things to me,” the woman was demanding of him as Malik entered.

 _Ah_ , Malik thought. The reason for her haste was revealed.

The man with the sword looked past her, at Malik.

“Are you Malik?” he asked.

“I guess I am,” Malik said. “Who the hell are you?”

The man ignored him and made a motion with his hand. One of the others tossed a balled-up gown and a pouch in the woman’s direction. She caught them and paused to check the contents of the pouch. This turned out to be a smart move on her part.

“Half of my money is gone,” she said. “Give it back, you no good –”

“You should be grateful to get anything back at all,” the man with the sword told her. “Now get out of here before I take more.”

The woman looked furious, still, but obviously knew when to keep her mouth shut and cut her losses. She jutted her chin out and turned to storm from the storehouse with as much dignity as she could muster. As she went, she knocked shoulders with one of the guards – both had come in behind them.

Malik was left alone, surrounded by thugs. Well, there was also Benedito. Malik didn’t think he counted for much at the moment.

“So,” the man with the sword said. “You and I have a problem.”

“How can we have a problem?” Malik asked. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The back of his neck itched as the others moved and a ring formed around them, pressing with threat.

“My name is Pelle,” the man said, “and you’ve been stealing from me.”

Malik glanced at Benedito again. His eyes had opened. They were blown wide as plates, and his lips were pressed together in a thin white line.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malik said. “I haven’t stolen anything.”

“No?” Pelle asked. “Just last night I have it on good word that a one-armed man and his friend caused quite a ruckus in one of my bars. You knocked my best fighter in one swing, or so they say. You two,” he gestured from Malik to Benedito, “took home a large pot.”

Malik looked at Benedito harder. Benedito looked away.

“So I won a fight,” Malik said, finally turning back to Pelle. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is when you trick people into betting against you first.”

Malik resisted the urge to lick his lips or otherwise twitch.

“If people bet against me –”

“Don’t play these games with me, Malik,” Pelle said, stepping close enough that it was uncomfortable. That was the point, though, and Malik refused to back away. “Did you think no one would notice? There are only so many one-armed fighters in Rome. You haven’t been very subtle at all.”

He reached out to condescendingly pat Malik’s cheek. Malik clenched his jaw where he’d been touched and glared down at Pelle.

“What do you want?” Malik asked through his teeth.

“My money back,” Pelle said, stepping back. “Five hundred florins, that’s how much you owe me. Bring it here by this time tomorrow morning and I won’t kill your poor friend Benedito. How does that sound?”

Malik gaped at him. “Five _hundred_ – you can’t be serious! I can’t get that much money in a week let alone a day!”

“You didn’t seem to have any trouble spending it,” Pelle said.

If so, it was the first Malik was hearing of it. He cut a glare to Benedito, but the other man was still studiously avoiding eye contact.

“I suppose,” Pelle said, catching this look, “I could just kill your friend now and call us even. Which would you prefer?”

Malik’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Something cold and hard settled in his stomach. His anger turned sharp.

“You’ll have your money,” he promised.

It was a lie.

x

Malik left the storehouse with single-minded focus. He was already starting to form the beginnings of a plan. He couldn’t think where it had come from, and knew he probably should have been frightened by how immediate its arrival was, but he wasn’t. Not at all. He felt only determination – and certainty. He was going to kill these men, these Cento Occhi, and free Benedito.

Then they would have a chat about this supposed five hundred florins.

He had spent most of his apparently meager portion of winnings on the things he needed to survive – clothing, food, the room he was keeping – but he still had some left over in his stash. The money he’d made last night was untouched. It wasn’t a lot, maybe 30 florins in total, but he didn’t need much. In fact, there was only one thing he needed: A blade.

There was a blacksmith’s shop not far from here, he remembered, one that sold swords. He wasn’t sure how easy it would be to find something that was both cheap and serviceable, but he had until nightfall. That was when he’d make his move.

But Malik hadn’t made it very far from the storehouse before someone snagged him by the sleeve and pulled him into an alleyway.

Instinctively, he struck out, but the impulse was to use his dead arm. His shoulder jerked violently in its socket; the limb refused his command. This was just as well because his assailant was the woman from earlier.

She had put on the dress, which was wrinkled from its mistreatment, but hadn’t had time for anything else. Likely she’d been here this whole time, waiting to accost him when he passed. Her face was still bruised and bare of paint. Her hair hung in a loose mess across her shoulders. Malik had been distracted before, but he realized now that she was attractive, with dark eyes and a soft, round face. It wasn’t hard to tell what Benedito had seen in her.

As lovely as she was, her expression was still furious.

“You stupid men,” she started, clearly intending to take her mood out on Malik. “All you do is cause trouble for others.”

“Look, I’m sorry you got dragged into this, but I’m not the one who took your money,” Malik snapped.

He yanked his arm free from where she was still clinging to it and turned to go, but she grabbed at the back of his shirt and dragged him back.

“Is he still alive?” she asked. “Benedito.”

“Oh, so you do care,” Malik said dryly.

“He’s a good customer,” she sniffed. She sounded offended to be accused of feeling affection.

Malik wondered how much of their five hundred florins had passed into her hands.

“Well, your good customer still breathes for the moment,” Malik said. “I’d like to keep it that way, so if you don’t mind –”

“More importantly, what do you intend to do about my money?”

“Excuse me?”

“My money,” she repeated slowly, as if she thought Malik were stupid. “You’ve cost me quite a bit, and I want it back.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else,” Malik said.

He turned to go once more and was stopped once more. He wished she would stop grabbing his shirt. It wasn’t very good quality and it was probably going to fall apart one of these days. He didn’t want to have to buy another.

“You clearly intend to do something,” the woman said. “I want to make sure you do it right, and that I get my money back.”

Malik sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elisabetta,” she said.

“Okay, Elisabetta, I don’t know what you think is going on here,” he said, “but it’s dangerous. People are going to get killed. You should stay out of it.”

Elisabetta spat at his feet.

“People die all the time,” she said. “Not me. And today, not Benedito.”

Malik stared at her incredulously.

“So?” she prompted impatiently.

“I’m having a hard time figuring out what your whole deal is,” Malik admitted. “And I want you to know that it would be really easy for me to run away right now and lose you in a crowd. I promise I’ll try to get your money back, so just leave me alone. I don’t need your help.”

“When you work alone, you die alone,” Elisabetta countered. “Even whores know that. Even the assassin has friends.”

“Well, I’m not a whore or the assassin so –” Malik cut himself off as he processed what she’d said. “How do you know that?”

Elisabetta glanced quickly away, then caught herself and met his eyes once more

“Know what?” she asked.

“That the assassin has friends.”

“Everyone knows that,” she said.

Malik, who was in no position to say whether everyone did or didn’t know that, rocked back on his feet and examined her carefully. Her face betrayed nothing but her already well-established annoyance. He wouldn’t get anything out of her now.

“Fine,” Malik said at last. “Clearly there’s nothing I can say that will convince you to give it up. Maybe there’s a way you can help.” He looked over his shoulder, back at the mouth of the alley where people passed by only a few feet away. “Let’s talk somewhere else, though. I don’t want to be overheard.”

Elisabetta eyed him warily for a moment, suspicious of his sudden capitulation, then nodded.

“I know a place,” she said, and pushed past him toward the street.

Malik followed. He wondered what the chances were that he was not about to be led to a brothel.


End file.
